


Home for Christmas

by hoosierbitch



Series: sneakers and sheriff badges [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Baking, Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Holidays, Kid Fic, Silly, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:49:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoosierbitch/pseuds/hoosierbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For handwavey plot reasons, Neal is transformed into a five year old. He spends Christmas with the Burkes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day 16 of the White Collar Advent Calendar--big thanks to tj_teejay for setting this all up! Thanks: To the lovely elrhiarhodan, for the lightning-fast last-minute beta!

“I am not good with kids, Elizabeth. Everyone knows that. _Neal_ knows that!” They both turn to look at Neal, who’s burbling happily into his glass of milk. “This is not my life.”

“Don’t such a drama queen, Peter. It’s not like anyone got hurt. And he’ll be back to himself in twenty-four hours.”

“No. This is not my life. I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming a nice crazy dream and soon I’m going to wake up, and Neal will be miles away and a _grown up_ , and—”

There’s a sniffle from the table. “You…you want me to go away?”

It is categorically unfair that while most of Neal has shrunk, his eyes seem even bigger. And shinier. And crying-er.

“No, honey, of course Peter doesn’t want you to go away!” Neal’s bottom lip trembles. _Oh for Christ’s sake…_ “Peter. Tell Neal that you don’t want him to go away.” El’s gesturing for Peter to come closer, but he just _can’t_. Neal’s all sticky with milk and his nose is probably going to start running soon and he’s so tiny that Peter might accidentally break him.

“Neal. I do not want you to go away.” Neal’s head swivels back and forth between them.

“Really?” He sounds heartbreakingly hopeful.

Peter reaches out carefully and pats him on the head. Neal’s hair is soft and curly under his palm. “Good boy,” he says, because kids are kind of like dogs, and Satchmo always seems to like it. Neal beams at him. And then launches himself at Peter and hugs him. “Elizabeth.”

“Yes, dear?”

“There’s. There’s a kid on my leg.”

“Yes, dear.”

“He’s getting…he’s getting stuff all over my suit.”

“He sure is.”

“Help me?”

Neal wiggles happily and wipes his nose on Peter’s jacket. “I wanna make cookies!”

*

The cookies are horrible. Neal eats eight of them.

“Today we learned the difference between salt and sugar, didn’t we, Neal?” Neal nods and munches on another deathcookie. Peter nibbles gingerly at his and forces a smile whenever Neal looks over at him.

“Mmm. Very, um. Very good job, uh…kiddo?”

“Neal, why don’t you tell Peter about all the work you did?”

“Okay! We made the cookies and I got to mix the dough because I’m strong and then I put in the milk and it was fun and I spilled some but then I cleaned it up before Satchmo could eat it because dogs can’t eat human food because it’ll make them sick!”

El jumps in before Neal asphyxiates with excitement. “Don’t eat too much, Neal. We have to save some of the cookies for Santa, don’t we?”

Neal frowns at her, then goes over to Peter and whispers in his ear. “Doesn’t Mrs. Elizabeth know that Santa’s not real?”

Peter looks helplessly at Elizabeth and she shrugs at him. “Um. Don’t _you_ believe Santa is still real?”

“No, I’m not a baby.”

Peter’s not sure that that’s true, but it’s not the point of contention at the moment so he lets it slide. A five year old’s dignity, he’s learning, is a fragile and dangerous thing. “We don’t believe in Santa either,” Peter says, “but sometime it’s nice to pretend.”

Neal frowns and climbs into Peter’s lap, his freakishly pointy knees coming perilously close to Peter’s twigs and berries. “Yeah, but then sometimes there’s no presents at Christmas but it’s not Santa’s fault. It’s not because I was bad,” Neal says solemnly. “’Cause if there really was a real Santa then I’d get lotsa presents.” Neal’s legs are swinging back and forth and his cookie is crumbling all over Peter’s lap and into Satchmo’s hopeful mouth and Peter is just not equipped to deal with this.

“Elizabeth—”

“Talk to him.”

“But I—”

“He’s your friend.” In miniature. “Talk to him.”

Elizabeth goes back into the kitchen and Neal solemnly offers Peter the last of his cookie. “Uh. No thanks, kiddo.”

“That’s not my name,” Neal says, cramming the cookie into his mouth. “My name’s Neal and only Mom can call me slugger and Neal-o. But. But my mommy’s not here.” Neal peers around the room, as if she could have magically appeared without him knowing it.

“Why don’t we…decorate the Christmas tree?”

Neal jumps out of his lap enthusiastically, kicking Peter in the groin with a tiny sneakered foot on the way. Once Peter catches his breath he starts unpacking the boxes of ornaments and lights. Neal stands back and looks unhappy. “What’s wrong, kid—er, Neal?”

“That’s not blue,” Neal says, pointing at the ornament in Peter’s hand. It’s striped red and yellow.

“So?”

“You should put them all with their colors. ‘Cause then they’ll have friends.”

“…right.”

Peter steps back and lets Neal take over. Neal rearranges Peter’s work and unpacks some more boxes, handling every ornament carefully, placing them gently on the carpet until they’re arranged in a rainbow of colors, sorted by shape within their space on the spectrum. Peter sits on the couch and untangles the lights.

In the last box, amidst paper strings of gingerbread men and embarrassing family photos, Neal finds a Santa hat.

“Mr. Peter Mr. Peter Mr. Peter!”

“You don’t have to call me that.”

“Mr. Peter guess what?”

“What?”

“I found a hat!” Neal holds it aloft victoriously.

“Yes, you did.”

Neal stares at him. The silence is horribly uncomfortable.

“Good job?” Neal’s bottom lip starts to quiver. “Bad job? Good boy?” Neal’s face crumples. “What’s wrong? What did I do? Are you hurt? Is it bleeding?” He gets on his knees in front of Neal, reviewing all of his first aid training in his head. Neal looks up at him from underneath his bangs, his eyelashes clumped together with the threat of impending tears. “What’s wrong?”

“I wanna wear the hat,” Neal says, his voice tiny and sad. “But it’s not mine.” The corners of his mouth turn down and tears start trickling down his cheeks. He hands the hat over to Peter. It’s an old hat; the velvet’s worn and the white puff at the end is misshapen. It droops unhappily in Neal’s hand.

Peter’s half-convinced that he’s being taken by the youngest con man ever, but he’s not willing to take the chance.“You can have the hat, Neal. But only if you’re very careful with it. Okay?”

“Really?” Neal’s whole face transforms with happiness. “Really for real I can have it? I’ll take the best care of it ever!” When Neal puts the hat on it slides down over his face, coming to rest on the tip of his nose. “Mr. Peter, I can’t see anything!” He sounds delighted.

Peter rearranges the hat and takes a picture of Neal with his phone. It’s the cutest blackmail material ever. While he’s figuring out how to make that his new background, Neal takes off for the kitchen.

“Mrs. Elizabeth look at my hat! It’s red and white and Peter—Mr. Peter said I can have it really for real!”

Elizabeth shepherds Neal back into the living room, where he starts to decorate every branch of the tree that he can reach, pushing his hat back from where it falls across his face every so often.

“That’s your dad’s hat,” she says quietly, leaning against Peter’s side.

“Yeah.”

“And you gave it to Neal?”

“Just for today. I’ll get it back tomorrow night.”

Neal starts humming to himself, up on his tiptoes to get the right combination of shiny ornaments and handmade ornaments in the blue and white sector of the tree. “Honey, if you think there’s any chance you’re ever getting that hat back, you are deluding yourself.”

He sighs. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” Neal finishes decorating his portion of the tree and cheerily directs Peter for the rest of it, falling over in peals of laughter whenever Peter does it wrong. Peter would be irritated, except Neal explains it all so carefully once he’s recovered from his giggle fits. Neal is endearingly determined to get every detail of the tree _just right_. Peter usually decorates it with whatever comes out of the box first and then tosses some tinsel on afterwards. Peter likes the tinsel. Neal gapes at him when he pulls it out of the box like he’s just committed some heinous crime.

“It’s shiny,” Peter says in his own defense.

“Put it back.” Neal points at the box with one tiny finger and Peter obeys. “Who puts green tinsel on a green tree? You are so weird.”

When it’s time to walk Satchmo, Neal insists on coming along to help. They tuck him into one of Elizabeth’s smaller coats. It ends about mid-calf, but it should keep him warm. Neal picks out a pink scarf, glancing at them every so often to make sure it’s okay. He must have learned how to be subtle in his later years. Elizabeth’s green coat clashes horribly with both the scarf and the Santa hat, perched precariously on top of the bundle that is Neal Caffrey.

Elizabeth makes them pose for a picture before they leave. Now they both have blackmail material.

Neal hops merrily down the sidewalk, talking about everything he sees. Peter grunts in agreement whenever Neal pauses for breath. When they get to a cross-street Peter realizes that Neal’s not beside him anymore. “What’s wrong?”

“You haveta hold my hand,” Neal says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

They hadn’t gotten any gloves when they picked up the rest of the kid-sized clothing, so Neal’s hand is tiny and cold in his own. Peter doesn’t know how things can go back to normal after this. How he’s going to be able to think of Neal without the afterimage of him as a child, happily humming and tugging on Peter’s hand, talking brightly about something pretty that he wants Peter to see. On second thought, there’s not that much of a difference…

It’s cold, and Satch is hesitant to relieve himself before they’ve walked nearly twenty minutes away. Neal’s quieter on the walk back.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” Neal’s voice is subdued.

“Are you tired?”

“No.”

“What are you thinking about?”

Neal sniffles and tugs his scarf tighter. “I don’t wanna go home.”

They’re a couple of blocks away. Peter wishes Elizabeth was within hearing range. “You only have to stay here another day. Then you get to go back to your mommy, okay?” Except he wouldn’t be going back, would he? Neal wasn’t time travelling, he’d just…regressed. And tomorrow night he’d be switching back to Neal Caffrey in his thirties.

“I don’t wanna go home to my mom,” Neal says, so quietly Peter almost misses it. “I wanna stay with you and Mrs. Elizabeth and Satchmo, and make cookies, and have a Christmas tree. Can I?” Neal pushes his hat back so that he can look up at Peter. “If I’m really good, can I not have to go home?”

For a disconcerting second Peter wishes Neal—his Neal—was there to help him answer that question. “You already are good. And you have to go back to your mom tomorrow, but then you can come over to visit any time you want, okay?” Neal nods and stares at his feet the rest of the way home.

When they get back to the house Neal stops on the doorstep and buries his hands in Satchmo’s fur. “Mr. Peter—don’t tell my mom that I asked you that, okay? I was just kidding. I do want to go home.”

“I won’t tell her anything.”

Neal gives him a shy smile and goes inside to where Elizabeth’s ready to help him out of his coat, already launching into a recitation of every cool thing he’d seen on his walk.

When Neal takes a potty break Peter finds Elizabeth and hugs her tight. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” he says, breathing deep and holding on. “It’ll be fine.”

*

For all of the differences in Neal, some things remain the same. He talks incessantly and plays with everything and runs around the house like a demented Chihuahua with Satchmo at his heels and finally, when his energy stores are depleted, he completely collapses. Peter finds him under the dining room table with his Santa hat still on, one last cookie that he must have squirreled away somewhere clutched tight to his chest. He mumbles unhappily when Peter pulls him out from his hiding spot and picks him up.

“Elizabeth? Where should I put him?”

When she comes into the dining room she’s dressed to go outside, her coat and hat already on, gloves and keys in her hands. “The guest bedroom. Just make sure the nightlight’s plugged in and leave the door open.”

“Where are you going?”

“The store.”

“On the night before Christmas? Are you _insane_?” Every store that wasn’t closed would be a madhouse.

“Okay, Peter—do you have any presents lying around that are suitable for a five year old? Because I don’t.”

“He’s only going to be five for another day.”

“Yes. One more day. Christmas day. Do you really want him to wake up and not have any presents under the tree? Again?”

He looks down at the slumbering pile of child in his arms. “Buy him some finger-paints.”

She kisses him on the cheek and leaves. Neal’s small, but he’s still heavy. Peter carries him carefully up the stairs and puts him down as gently as he can on the bed. Neal’s shoes are already off, and since Peter’s not sure where exactly the line between “helpful” and “bad touching” is, he leaves all of Neal’s clothes on and maneuvers the blanket on top of him.

*

Peter had half expected to be woken up by a hyperactive Neal at some ungodly hour, so when Elizabeth wakes him up at eight, he’s both worried and surprised. They get dressed quickly and walk to Neal’s room. Satchmo is sitting on his bed and Neal is petting him and humming _Jingle Bells_ under his breath. He smiles hugely at them when he sees them, then realizes Satchmo isn’t allowed on the furniture, and hurriedly tries to push the dog off the bed. Satch doesn’t budge.

“It wasn’t his fault,” Neal says, leaning his weight ineffectually against Satch’s back. “I told him to climb up and I’m really sorry and there’s hair on eeeeeverything.”

Peter sighs. “Satch. Down.”

Satch jumps onto the floor and Neal grins guiltily at them. “Oops?”

Elizabeth smiles. “Neal, how do you feel about pancakes?” Neal’s eyes get huge and he climbs off the bed and over to Elizabeth’s side.

“I like them with blueberries or in Mickey Mouse shapes, please.”

“If you brush your teeth, you can have _both_.” Neal practically dances his way to the bathroom, then thunders down the stairs. For a tiny little thing he sure makes a lot of noise.

Peter and Elizabeth are waiting for him in the living room. Neal looks at them, confused, glancing at the kitchen. The kid really wants those pancakes.

Neal’s face when he sees the presents under the tree is priceless. The last time Peter can remember Neal looking like that, they’d been standing in front of a newly discovered Degas. “Look at all the presents!”

“Yeah, Neal, we can see them.” Neal starts towards them but stops quickly.

“Um—is the presents just for you guys? ‘Cause I’m not supposed to be here anyway. And presents are a lot of money. It’s okay though ‘cause you already bought me a lot of nice clothes and I don’t need anything else.”

Peter has no idea how to handle this side of Neal. Thankfully, Elizabeth does. She reaches under the tree, grabs one of the presents that they’d wrapped last night, and hands it to Neal. “A whole bunch of these have your name on them. They’re just for you.” Neal bypasses the present entirely as he runs towards her and hugs her.

Neal as a kid is just as fastidious as Neal when he’s grown up, so he doesn’t tear a single piece of wrapping paper. He peels off every bit of tape and unfolds the paper, the anticipation just making his happiness that much brighter. Elizabeth had done a good job at the store last night, and Neal loves every single one of his presents. He names his stuffed dog Satchmo the Second, eats half of his chocolate right away, puts his new kid-sized Santa hat on over his bed-head, and holds the fingerpaints and new notebook to his chest.

They spend the day making pancakes and painting pictures for each other and having snowball fights in the backyard.

And when the time for the change draws near Neal gets into big enough clothes, Peter’s Santa hat and Satchmo the Second clutched in his small hands. They all gather in the bedroom. “Is it gonna hurt?”

“No,” Peter says, crouching so that he’ll be level with Neal. “It won’t hurt at all.”

“Thanks for being part of our Christmas,” Elizabeth says. “We are so happy that you were here.”

Neal smiles and hugs them both.

The change is sudden. A fluctuation in the air, a distortion of the pressure—then a flash of sound and light so bright it shocks and blinds them. And when the air clears, there’s Neal, six feet tall and gorgeous, sitting on their guest bed in Peter’s pajamas.

“Oh my god.” Neal stares at the room, at himself, at his clothes, and then at the stuffed dog in his hands. “Oh my god. Was I really—and then it just— _holy crap_.”

“Watch your language, young man.” Neal’s face moves from contrite to amused in seconds.

“Was I really just a little kid?”

Peter nods and Elizabeth smiles at him. “Yes, you were. And you were _adorable_. I have many pictures.”

“This is not my life,” Neal says distantly.

“Yeah,” Peter says, speaking from experience. “It really, really is.”

*

Elizabeth insists that Neal stay for Christmas dinner, and he’s still shaken up enough that Peter makes it an order. Neal helps Elizabeth in the kitchen and Peter putters around the house, putting on Holiday music and walking the dog, spreading some tinsel on the tree, cleaning up the detritus from the morning. Neal’s tiny sneakers are by the door. Peter tucks them away in the back of the closet.

After dinner they settle down on the couch to watch _White Christmas_. They each have a mug of minty hot chocolate; there’s snow falling outside the window.

“Thanks,” Neal says quietly. “You guys didn’t have to do this. Any of this. And the presents, and the food—oh my god, you ate those horrible cookies, didn’t you?”

“I still can’t feel my tongue,” Peter says gravely.

“You were a very precocious five year old, but baking was definitely not your forte.”

“Even with all the magic mumbo jumbo,” Neal says, snuggling deeper into the couch, “I think this might be the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”

Peter smiles, and Elizabeth leans her head on his shoulder. “Us, too.”

“Also? I am _definitely_ keeping the hat.”

*

_Feeback is appreciated!_


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